


you go your way, i'll go your way too

by hihoplastic



Series: DW Tumblr Prompts/Reposts [15]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, it's just the inside of a pillow, seriously, there's no substance here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9101071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: He’d picked her up nearly a week ago, declaring it the Month of Christmas, and has steadfastly refused to return her to Stormcage until after the 25th.“That could be any time, sweetie,” she’d reminded him, only to have him grin and tap her nose.“Exactly.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> \- prompted by [vertencar](http://www.vertencar.tumblr.com): _River/11, River wakes up on Christmas morning and find the Doctor under the tree wrapped in wrapping paper. He's the present._  
>  \- title from leonard cohen's _the sweetest little song_

The music dies almost as soon as it wakes her, a brash chorus of _—had a very shiny no—_ over the loudspeaker before it abruptly cuts out. River blinks the sleep from her eyes, giving her hearts a moment to settle. The TARDIS hums reassuringly, amused, and River lets her shoulders drop, eyeing the outline of the Doctor in the bed next to her, cool to the touch. 

She pushes down the voice that says he hadn't wanted to stay, and instead focuses on stretching out her tired but pleasantly sore muscles. 

Her lips quirk at the thought, eyeing her bra on the other side of the room, flung over a floor lamp, the Doctor’s suspenders half under the bed, his bow tie peaking out between the pillows. 

It hasn't been so long, not really—she’s only on her eighth month in prison—but it feels longer, with the days spent here and there and everywhere. She still isn't quite sure how this marriage thing works. If it’s real. If it’s real to him. He’s done a good job avoiding the subject thus far, and she refuses to ask. It shouldn't bother her, she knows—the Doctor is nothing if not affectionate, and she doubts too many if any other women have their lingerie scattered about the TARDIS. 

But sometimes, when the bed is empty, it creeps up on her. 

Shaking the thought away, she tugs his bow tie free of the sheets, giving in to the sentimental desire to wrap it around her palm, to bring it up to her face. It smells like him, with a bit of musk and sweat, and she can't help but close her eyes, just for a moment.

He’d picked her up nearly a week ago, declaring it the Month of Christmas, and has steadfastly refused to return her to Stormcage until after the 25th. 

“That could be any time, sweetie,” she’d reminded him, only to have him grin and tap her nose.

“Exactly.”

She’d huffed at the time, put up the barest of pretense, but if she's honest it’s the best present he could have given her: time, just the two of them in the TARDIS. No companion, no parents. She’s sure there will be a big holiday party at some point or another, but for now she’s content to run with him alone. 

Slipping into a warm robe, River pockets his bow tie and pads through the halls, veering off into the kitchen momentarily, startled to find an assortment of breakfast items from various planets—all things she's remarked enjoying at one time or another. On the counter is a bottle of her favorite champagne, and a lump of berries wrapped in brown paper she knows make the best mimosas in the galaxy.

“Idiot,” she murmurs, fixes herself a cup of tea and tries to decide if she should drag him back here when she finds him, or back to bed. 

Continuing through the halls, his voice reaches her first, an indistinct mumbling followed by a thump. 

“Doctor?”

There’s a yelp, more frantic mumbling and a quick, “Just a minute, dear!”

Already bemusedly exasperated, River follows the sound until she reaches the study, a warm, cavernous room she loves to curl up in on slower days. 

The sight that greets her isn't all that surprising. 

The Doctor, tangled from neck to toe in wrapping paper, lays on the floor, desperately trying to reach his screwdriver some five feet away. Somehow, there are lights around his ankles and around the tree, and tinsel in his hair. There are dozens of boxes and presents—she spies a sweater, a calendar, a pair of mittens from Deloros V, and a jewelry box before she even thinks to look away. 

“Almost...there… you're not gonna get away this time,” he mutters, fingers clawing at the ground to stretch just that much further. 

“Need a hand?”

She winces in sympathy as his head bangs against the underside of the table. 

“Ow! River! Ow!”

“Sorry, sweetie.”

He blinks up at her, huffing his hair out of his eyes, and for a moment just smiles. Some of his age fades, his shoulders relax, and she loves that she can do that for him. Just her presence. 

Then he blinks, gasps, and hits his head again in a struggle to wriggle out from under the table. “No, don't look!”

He tries to block her gaze from the gifts by rolling in front of them. 

“Having some trouble?”

“No, no, it’s fine, nothing I can't handle! Did you see breakfast! I made breakfast! Well, I was going to make breakfast, but I wanted to get the tree up first and the presents wrapped—oi, no peeking!”

River shrugs, returning her gaze to his face instead of trying to peek around him. “Can't blame a girl for trying.”

“You’ll ruin Christmas!”

“Says the man tied up under the tree.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Then again, I can't think of a better present.”

“Than what?” he mumbles, pulling distractedly on a lump of tape stuck to his jacket. 

“You. Tied up.”

The Doctor blinks, then flushes, pointing a finger at her. “You—I—we—”

River arches an eyebrow. “Yes, that was rather the point.”

“River.” He huffs, cheeks red but smile fond. “Fine. You can have one present— _if_ you untie me.”

“Two, and I’ll even do it without mocking you.”

“Deal.”

River smirks, setting her mug down on the table before dropping to her knees beside him. She starts with the lights first, while he continues to try and rid himself of dozens of pieces of tape and shredded tinsel. 

“Do I even want to know?”

The Doctor sighs. “Probably not. Just—lights that wrap _themselves._ It could had been brilliant.”

River bites her lip. “I'm sure you’ll figure it out one day.”

“Did I wake you? The stereo—”

“It’s fine. I was already up.”

“Liar.”

She shrugs, deftly unwinding a section from his leg. “I’d rather not miss anything, anyway,” she says. “Even your miserable attempts at wrapping.”

“Oi, you said—”

“That's not mocking, sweetie, that's fact.”

She kisses his cheek to assuage him, delighted by how well it works. The Doctor sighs, placated, and starts to work on the wrapping paper somehow encasing his middle. 

River plucks the scissors out of his hand before he’s barely touched them. 

“Not a chance,” she says, moving them out of arm’s reach.

“What? I'm great with scissors!”

She arches an eyebrow, hands still focused on tangles. 

“I’ll have you know, I won best paper snowflake in the 2099 St Nicholas Holiday Decoration Olympics.”

“That is not a real competition.”

“It is! I’ll take you—not then, timestreams, but the next one! 2100 should be a sight.”

“Will Rudolph be there?”

“Don't be ridiculous. His great grandson, on the other hand—”

River smothers a snort behind her hand. 

“What?”

“Nothing, my love,” she murmurs, pulling loose the last of the wire. “There we go. Now, hold still.”

“River—”

She slips the scissors between the paper, cutting all of it away in one long stripe. 

“There.”

The Doctor wriggles out of it, shaking a bright red bow off his hand as he jumps to his feet. 

“Now then!”

River yelps as he tugs her to her feet. 

“Where should we go today, dear? The three emerald moons of Piloxi? Party in the 1930s? Oh! The one day reign of Marcolo the Stunted? Not a very nice name, when you think about it.”

He makes for the door, but River hauls him back, fingers curling over his arms. 

“I believe you promised me two presents.”

The Doctor smiles, gaze softening. “I suppose I did. Which one would you like?”

“That o—” she says, frowning at the empty space where the jewelry box used to be. When she looks back, it’s in his hand. 

“How—”

The Doctor smirks. “How did I know?”

“How did you get it? You weren't anywhere near—”

“Just open it.”

River sighs, curiosity appeased for the moment by the gleeful, yet somewhat nervous look in his eyes as he watches her take the box. It’s long and slim and intricately carved with a generic town square Christmas scene. 

Biting her lip, she opens the lid, a bright laugh stealing the quiet from the room. 

She picks up the card, flipping it around so he can see. “‘Get out of jail free?’ Honey, in case you've forgotten, I do that all on my own.”

“I'm well aware,” he says, a touch of pride and awe in his tone. “But this is special.”

“Oh?”

“Look in the box again.”

Under where the card was, a thin gold pendant hangs at the end of a gold chain.

River runs a finger gently over the cool metal. “It’s beautiful. What is it?”

He smiles. “It’s a pen.”

“A pen?”

Nodding, he takes it out of the box and uncaps the end. “It’ll write on anything, anywhere, in any gravity or pressure. It’s not gold, either—Dendurium quartzite, nearly indestructible. And, it never runs out of ink.”

“For my diary?” she asks, a slight tremor in her voice she tries to hide with a smile.

The Doctor falters, a brief flash of anguish she doesn't quite understand, and then shakes his head. “No, I don't think—it has another purpose.”

“Oh?”

He points to the card in her hand, gleeful. “Write me a message.”

“What?”

“A message on the card, on the coffee table, wherever!”

River frowns, but dutifully places the card against his chest and scrawls _hello sweetie._ The ink dries instantly, but even before that a light pokes out of his inside pocket.

“What—?”

The Doctor grins, pulling out his psychic paper with a flourish, her message still glowing.

“Psychic pen for psychic paper.” 

He rocks back on his heels, terribly pleased with himself. 

River stares at the dual messages, the one on the psychic paper now fading as a lump forms in her throat. "Why?"

It's about all she can manage, because she thinks she knows why. Knows him well enough, know what it means, but she needs him to say it. Needs him to say it first. 

Scratching the back of his neck, his smile dims. “Getting hold of me isn't always easy, River. There are times—times when I'm late, times when I don't come at all. The best thing about a time machine is also the worst thing about a time machine—I can be anywhere at any time, and not always the right place or the right time.”

River nods. “I know that, sweetie. I don't expect you—”

“That's what this is for. Direct line, so to speak. Whatever you need, whenever you need it—whether you’re sitting in Stormcage or jumping out of a space ship.” Her eyes drop, and he lifts her chin to meet his gaze. “I’ll always catch you, River.”

She blinks, and tries to muster a smile but her hand is quivering and her head feels so light. It's proof, in a little gold capsule—that he wants her. That he cares. That he trusts her. Her mother doesn't have anything like it—TARDIS number and key, of course, but nothing so direct, so intentional, and she feels her hearts pick up their pace, the sound in her ears dimming his sudden panic.

“Do you not like it?” he asks, stumbling over himself before she can say a word. “I know it's not your traditional first anniversary gift—I mean, not that we really have a definitive anniversary, all of time and space—unless you count the actual day, but that day was a bit rubbish until the end, so I thought—”

“Shut up,” she murmurs, lips over his before the words are fully formed and his arms pinwheel for a moment, startled, before landing on her waist. He settles easily, pulling her closer, tongue brushing her lower lip and she whimpers, a sound that makes him smile. 

“It’s okay, then?” he asks, a bit breathless, heads still close together, her hand curled around the chain pressed against the back of his neck. 

“I love it,” she whispers, and knows he can hear the real words in the brush of her nose against his cheek.

His hand sweeps over her back, forehead to hers and she sighs, something like joy in her veins and she's never had that, never knew it existed. She feels like crying, like dancing, like melting so she hauls him back and kisses him until he feels it, too.

“What's the other one?”

The Doctor blinks slowly. “Other one what?”

“Present. You promised me two.”

He pulls back, affronted but comically breathless. “I was your first present! You unwrapped me!”

“That doesn't count.”

“Doesn't—I'm a great present!”

“I don't know,” she muses, “There’s this painting by Chagall I was quite looking forward to—are you sure I can't take it back?”

The Doctor glares, but his lips twitch on a smile. “No returns, no exchanges, Song.”

She gives a woeful sigh. “I suppose i’ll just have to keep you.”

“You'd better,” he murmurs, capturing her lips again before she can protest. 

Behind his back, she scrawls on her hand, _happy anniversary._

The Doctor breaks the kiss with a gasp, glancing down at the paper with a smile.

“Happy Christmas, River.”


End file.
